The Ides of March (24 page)

Publius Sextius began to climb the tree, pulling himself up on the lower branches, then using the forks in the trunk like a ladder. He soon arrived at the branch leaning closest to the window. It was easy work to open the unlocked shutters and prise the windowpanes apart with the knife he wore at his belt. He pulled it open cautiously and slipped inside without making a sound, but a beam of moonlight from the open window gave him away.

One of the two men jumped to his feet, shouting, ‘What in Hades . . .’

Sextius, who already had his cane in hand, struck the man violently, knocking him to the floor.

Mustela, realizing that from being hunter he had become prey, was out of his room and in the hall in no time. He found a small balcony from which he could leap to the ground, stifling a cry of pain when he hit the hard earth below.

Publius Sextius was close behind and vaulted down after him. Decius Saurus had been left alone next to the fire, while his companion had gone off in search of wood. He tried to block the centurion’s way, but Publius Sextius tackled him full on, sending him rolling into the flames.

Mustela jumped on to the first horse he could find and flew through the main gate at a gallop. Publius Sextius ran in the opposite direction until he found his own horse, untied him, leapt on to his back and urged him forward in pursuit of the fugitive.

Mustela had bolted off and was careering about madly, in the light of the moon, among the shadows cast by the trees that streaked the ground with eerie shapes. At every bend in the road, the gravel flew and scattered on to the embankment below.

All at once a bird, frightened by Mustela’s passage, rose to the air directly in front of Sextius’s horse, spooking him and causing him to rear up. The centurion, taken completely by surprise, fell and tumbled down the cliff that edged the road.

Mustela continued to race off at breakneck speed until he realized that he was no longer being followed. He pulled on the reins and his horse jerked to a halt. He turned back, sensing a trap. He moved slowly, looking in every direction, as tense and suspicious as the animal he resembled and whose nickname he bore.

When he spotted Publius Sextius’s horse running wild, a selfsatisfied grin curled his lips, deforming his features.

The centurion’s horse was neighing and snorting, still obviously frightened by what had happened. Mustela dismounted and walked to the brink of the embankment. He saw broken branches and a scrap of the cloak his pursuer had been wearing stuck to a twig and waving in the wind.

‘Farewell, Publius Sextius,’ he murmured under his breath, still afraid that somehow the centurion might hear him. Then he remounted his horse and rode off.

Romae, in aedibus Bruti, a.d. III Id. Mart., secunda vigilia

Rome, the home of Brutus, 13 March, second guard shift, eleven p.m.

A
RTEMIDORUS
was stretched out on his bed open-eyed, his lamp burning. He stared at the ceiling beams in a daze as he wondered what to do next. Every now and then he got up to spy on the two guards blocking the hallway. They were still there, unmoving and silent.

At times he would hear noises, footsteps along the corridor or crossing the
atrium
. He could tell where they were coming from by the noise they made. Brick, marble, stone: each material sounded different. He had grown used to distinguishing them in that house of ghosts, even in the dark: Brutus’s nervous step, Porcia’s pacing, even Servilia’s light footfall when she came to visit her son and would stay for dinner or overnight.

Artemidorus poured himself another glass of water and looked glumly at the untouched tray of cakes that his young servant had brought to his room.

What the boy had reported had filled him with anguish. Thus far he’d said nothing, but what if they tortured him? What would happen then? Could he expect a slave to withstand torture and keep what he knew a secret?

Time must be running out. If Brutus was asking such questions, if the others had come back so soon, it must mean that action was imminent. Artemidorus was desperate to make plans, take precautions, protect himself . . . The boy had promised to come back, but that had been hours ago. Had his worst fears come to pass?

The silence and his anxiety had sharpened his senses to breaking point and he was sweating profusely, despite the fact that the temperature in his bedroom was always quite chilly. His tongue felt as dry as a piece of leather and stuck to his palate. He took another sip of water and tried to calm down.

He heard the dog whining in the rear courtyard, the creaking of the outside door, the scamper of feet on the gravel and then on the pavement of the
atrium
.

The sound was coming closer, turning into the footsteps of his young friend in the corridor leading to his room. At last!

He waited for the boy to knock.

‘Come in,’ he said.

‘You know those two out there in the hallway are gone?’ said the boy, entering.

‘That’s not possible!’

‘Look for yourself.’

Artemidorus opened the door a crack and looked out into the corridor, which was lit by a single lamp. No one was there.

‘I can’t explain it. I’m afraid it’s a trap.’

‘They probably think you’re sleeping. They’ve got other things to take care of. The master’s guests are leaving.’

He picked up the tray with the uneaten cakes and made to leave, then turned at the touch of Artemidorus’s hand on his arm.

‘I’m afraid,’ he blurted out. ‘I heard terrible things downstairs. You must let me go.’

‘No, wait,’ said Artemidorus. ‘I’ve been thinking about what you told me and I’ve come to a conclusion. You have to leave this house now, while you are still free to do so, before they start to suspect you. I’m saying this for your sake. I don’t want them to hurt you.’

‘I know, Artemidorus,’ said the boy with a smile. ‘But where can I go? Don’t you know what they do with runaway slaves?’

‘I would testify that I sent you out on an errand. I’m a free man and I have a good reputation. What’s more, Decimus Brutus is the Praetor Peregrinus and deals with all foreign residents. He knows me well. Listen to me. As soon as day breaks, leave the house with an excuse. Say that you’re going to buy me some medicine for my vitiligo; say the itching is driving me crazy. It’s true. Here, take the money. Go to the Tiber Island and look for the hospital. Find Antistius, who is my doctor. Tell him that I’ve sent you and that you need to stay with him for a few days. You’ll be safe, because he lives with Caesar, in the Domus Publica. No one will ever think of looking for you there. Do you understand?’

‘Yes. I understand. Do you want me to tell him the names?’

‘Shh! Are you mad? Whisper! No, don’t tell him anything for any reason whatsoever. You stay out of this. I’ll see to the matter myself.’

‘Do you want to give me something to take to him?’

‘Worse yet. If they catch you and search you, what will you say? They’ll cut you into little pieces, one piece at a time, until they’ve got every scrap of information from you. I’ll take care of this. I’m not sure how, but I’ll take care of it. Sooner or later they’ll have something better to do than keep me confined here. Do you understand what you’re to do?’

‘I do,’ answered the boy.

Artemidorus opened a drawer and took out a little piece of parchment. ‘This is a prescription Antistius gave me. It’s a cure for constipation. He’ll recognize it and be sure that I’m the one who has sent you. If you’re stopped on your way, no one will have reason to scold you or suspect you of anything. If Antistius asks about me, tell him that I’m not free to move but that as soon as I can I will contact him personally.’

‘I’ll go first thing in the morning, then.’

‘Go, and good luck. If everything turns out as I’m hoping, we’ll see each other in a few days.’

The boy gazed into his eyes for a moment with a curious, enigmatic expression, halfway between affection and pity. He opened the door and walked away.

Artemidorus watched him for a while from the threshold and then, as no one seemed to be around, took a few steps down the hall to see if he could find out what was happening.

But as he was about to turn left towards the peristyle, he found one of his guards in front of him.

‘Out for a walk, maestro?’ he said with a jeer. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’

Artemidorus felt a wave of fear and then one of powerless anger. ‘To have a crap,’ he replied.

In via Etrusca vetere, a.d. III Id. Mart., secunda vigilia

The Old Etruscan Trail, 13 March, second guard shift, eleven p.m.

P
UBLIUS SEXTIUS
, hanging one-handed from the branch of a thorn bush, was trying to grab on to a rocky outcrop and failing. He was bleeding from an extremely painful flesh wound and he could feel a warm trickle on his left side. All at once he heard his horse snorting.

‘Here, boy, over this way . . . over here,’ he said.

The horse seemed to understand his master’s words. He drew close and pushed his whole head over the brink of the drop. In so doing his reins dangled forward, practically brushing against the hand gripping the thorn bush. Publius braced himself and swung back and forth until he had built up enough momentum to reach the reins with his free hand and grab them.

As soon as the horse felt the sharp tug he became frightened, dug in his rear hoofs and began to back up with all the strength he had. Once he had hauled his heavy load over the rim of the embankment, Publius let go, so that the terrified horse would not drag him off.

He tried to bandage his wound as best he could, then waited for the skittish animal to calm down sufficiently to approach his master again, helped along by the sound of Publius’s voice and a handful of fresh grass in his fist. When the horse was finally within reach, Publius grabbed the reins and leapt on to his back, ready to resume his journey and make up for lost time.

As he was advancing at a good pace under the moonlight, he thought of the strange coincidence that could have cost him his life. How could those four be waiting for him, there in the
mansio
, as if he’d given them an appointment? He recognized the man in the grey cloak with the weasel’s face from that station on the Via Aemilia where he’d changed his horse several days before. How could he have got ahead of him so easily? He had to have known exactly where he was going.

If someone had been there at that moment, they would have seen a grin forming on Publius Sextius’s face. He was satisfied and triumphant at having solved the mystery. The arm that had so conveniently been used against him – Nebula’s map – could be turned just as easily against them. So, in the same way that the enemy knew where to lie in wait, Publius Sextius knew where he’d be able to ambush his enemy.

The road was becoming wider and the vegetation less thick. More bare-boughed trees, rather than evergreens, let the moonlight filter through.

How much further did he have to go? Publius Sextius wished he could fly, even though his weariness was dragging him down considerably. He didn’t remember when he had last had enough sleep, when he had consumed a normal meal sitting at a table with a jug of wine in front of him. He had been racing, racing against time itself, tiring one horse after another, but never giving up, never stopping to catch his breath. He would make it. He was Publius Sextius, senior front-line centurion, known as ‘the Cane’.

The Eagle is in danger

The message he had to deliver rang through his mind a thousand times each day, each night.

He pulled up, exhausted, at the entrance to an inn on a road with a cluster of rather wretched-looking stone and brick houses encircled by pens full of sheep and goats. The inn doubled as a message station for those travelling on behalf of the state.

The innkeeper was a heavy-set man of about sixty, with thinning hair combed back from his brow. His shoulders were wider than his paunch, a rarity in his line of work.

‘I’m a centurion,’ said Publius, showing him the
titulus
he wore on his neck. ‘I’m looking for a man who ran off from a
mansio
back there in the mountain, not only without paying his bill, but relieving a good number of customers of whatever they had in their pockets and the stableman of a good horse. A bloke with a face like a mouse or a weasel, take your pick, a straggly yellow moustache, hair like straw. He wears a grey cloak, day and night. Have you seen him, by any chance?’

The innkeeper nodded. ‘Your man passed through here.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘He’s gone.

‘Gone where?’

The innkeeper hesitated. The information he had received didn’t match what the centurion had just told him.

‘What’s wrong?’ asked Publius Sextius.

‘Seems strange to me that a pickpocket and horse thief like the one you’ve described would have access to a signalling station. That’s where he’s headed, but he’ll be back. I gave him a better horse than the one he was riding and he left me all the money he had as surety.’

Publius Sextius scratched his chin. ‘I know that place. It isn’t far. Bring me a jug of wine, some bread and a piece of cheese. I have to eat something. And give some barley to my horse – he’s earned it.’

The innkeeper served both man and horse promptly, relieved that he wasn’t getting involved in this story, at least not for the time being.

In Monte Appennino, statio Vox in Silentio, a.d. III Id. Mart., secunda vigilia

The Apennine Mountains, the Voice in the Silence station, 13 March, second guard shift, eleven p.m.

T
HE STATION
, perched high on the mountain ridge, was situated in such a way as to receive signals from both west and east. The second guard shift was ending and three men were on duty, two inside and one up in the watchtower. A gusty north wind was blowing and the man posted up there came inside, shivering and stamping his feet on the floor.

‘There’s a priority code coming in,’ he said. ‘The message regards the security of the republic.’

‘What are you talking about?’ asked one of his two comrades.